Note: This is a seattlepi.com reader blog. It is not written or edited by the P-I. The authors are solely responsible for content. E-mail us at newmedia@seattlepi.com if you consider a post inappropriate.

Awhile back I was lucky enough to have been in the audience at the Seattle Art Museum auditorium when one of my all-time favorite artists, Paul McCarthy presented an amazingly watered-down overview of his important place in history–I assume that this was because somebody decided that the audience would not be able to handle his more provocative, scatological and political work that takes on Kristeva-like mixes of blood and viscera, sado-masochism, George Bush and her majesty the Queen. Who knows, though. This person or persons may have even been right, but because of them what followed was really tepid and not at all what a true fan of the artist’s work would have hoped for.

However, I decided at some level, that, while the main narrative that was in place was trying as hard as it could to ignore the seamy underbelly of the artist’s work that I would try just as hard to undermine that narrative and at least make it clear to everyone that what they were seeing was not the entire story. Getting Meta for a moment–I had noticed a similar thing happen right before another of my favorite artists, Robert Rauschenberg passed away.

When I first started making artwork as an undergrad at UNR (University of Nevada, Reno) I was a huge fan of Conceptual Artwork–back then I thought that any monkey could learn to paint if you gave them enough lessons and taught them enough techniques–I still think this to a certain degree today, but definitely not as much–certainly, I still believe that the idea should be paramount when it comes to making artwork, but I’m a lot better about how retinal art fits into the entire panoply of the contemporary.

In any event, back then, as now– I was a huge fan of Marcel Duchamp, John Cage, Robert Rauschenberg and Jasper Johns–basically all the Black Mountain folks. (Recently, somebody told me that John Cage used to teach up in Seattle– and if that is the case–we should definitely be making more of a fuss about that.) I remember one huge day when Rachel Rosenthal, who had had a crush on both Rauschenberg and Johns, came and gave a talk at our university and an even huger day when my ex-wife bought me a signed Robert Rauschenberg print for my birthday ten or so years ago.

Anyway, back on track to what I was talking about–When Robert Rauschenberg was getting ready to pass away you could tell that there was a consensus to try very hard to position him as one of the the last great American Artists–maybe even the most important artist of the late twentieth century. He had everything, one part immigrant stock, he was particularly proud of his Native American heritage, he was an inventor, a natural, not too bright–just like Americans like–he was rather an intuitive–a natural. His work was just abstract enough that it could be seen as non-challenging to those that fear art, but exciting enough to stir the blood of many a beginning artist–it was perfect and when all of that comes together and someone is about to die there are those that gather around to canonize. Time was ready, Newsweek, ArtForum, etc.

But there was one problem with all of that–something that had the power to deconstruct everything. Something that has stood in opposition to the main hegemonic text since the beginning of modernity. Rauschenberg and Johns had been flat mates for awhile in the 50′s–they had become lovers then, and Rauschenberg would later go on to have a relationship with another artist, expressionist and mark-maker Cy Twombly. It was this fact that stood in the way of Rauschenberg being someone that the history books could easily tout as the most important artist of the late twentieth century. Robert Rauschenberg was homosexual. It wasn’t fair, it wasn’t nice, it wasn’t good–but it was true–that is the way that American hegemony placed things. You couldn’t make a hero out of someone who stood in such absolute contradistinction to the main hegemonic narrative–and so Rauschenberg died. A good bit of fuss was made, commensurate with an important twentieth century artist–but certainly nothing to leave one with the impression that an artistic hero had passed away. And there was very little talk of his place in the future.

I’m not saying that, that is exactly what was going on in the presentation that Paul McCarthy gave at SAM–except to say that somebody (and that might even include McCarthy’s own sense of what the public demands) felt that the main narrative–the story that we should all walk away with–the story that all of us should and would tell about Paul McCarthy was to be a respectable little tale–one that showed only his earliest work–the seminal stuff. The stuff that was clean, theoretically clean, squeaky clean, the stuff that looked like everyone else’s performance artwork. The kind of stuff that would easily fit in a history book, right next to Michelangelo, Jackson Pollock and a de-queered Robert Rauschenberg.

History is a lot like that, the main narrative–the stuff that you are supposed to swallow is presented as solid, flat, impenetrable and above all else as true–but in reality it is full of things that deconstruct it, queer it, etc.

As I write this the article has taken on its own deconstructive power and has become about deconstructing the nominal, hegemonic, masculinist, official and authorized text–and that is exactly what happened in that auditorium. As I sat in that audience I began to feel a sudden sense that Paul McCarthy was being “Disnified” cleaned up, flattened-out so that he would fit neatly into a very specific history that included sexless blue hairs and frightened conservative idiots and that reminded me of something–two things actually, in his recent work–the stuff with characters having sex and doing all the things that you are distinctly not supposed to do in a museum were also the pieces in which he dealt with closed spaces as if they were dreamlike and blasted open into nonsensical space. And that reminded me of a paper that I had written in Grad school about Disneyland, Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride and dreams. So I raised my hand and took the moment to ask Paul McCarthy for three things–his autograph, to remind the audience that not all of his work was squeaky clean and whether or not he had thought about his use of architecture in a way that deconstructs our perception of the hegemony of architectural space/law– that was similar to the dream-like way that they are used in Disneyland. He smiled noticeably. I think he was happy that at least one person was aware of the rest of his body of work, but I can’t be certain and he said that he hadn’t thought of that, but it was a very interesting take on the work and that he would think about it. I thanked him and then after the talk we spoke some more.

Dreamspace Disneyland

When you walk into Disneyland you are greeted by lots and lots of buildings, Main Street USA is full of them, the center of the park is a castle, there is a Haunted mansard Mansion and nearly every ride is housed in a building. These architecturally structured exteriors present the facade of a generally hegemonic, masculine approach that recalls logic and the control of nature.

However, within these attractions, traditional narrative and common logic break down into the loose, artistic illogic of the cinematic and the dreamlike. Here, Imagineers, despite Disney, have created spaces that undermine the solid-stolid image of the park.

Like dreams, here, interiors are not always what they seem. Also like dreams, Disney attractions appear much larger on the inside than they suggest upon entry. In the Alice in Wonderland ride, the outside appears as a traditional storybook castle. The inside however, immediately transforms from bricks and mortar into a cavernous tunnel. The rabbit hole through which Alice falls in both the movie and book. Within–are reading rooms and a lush forested interior in which all sorts of anarchic imagery appears. Including the Cheshire Cat and a garden of singing flowers. The Cheshire Cat’s lament, “I’m not sure where I am either” could be referring to the fact that, like the rider, he is unsure whether he is inside a large castle or outside in a forest of singing trees.

Mr. Toad’s Wild ride is perhaps the best ride to illustrate this interior/exterior breakdown. On Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride, guests riding one of the toad’s “Motor Cars” enter through a large study room onto a London setting without ever leaving the manor. As in a dream, the structure of the mansion becomes irrational. Interior areas become exteriorized and exteriors coalesce as Toad Manor alters into the dank, darkened city streets of London. As guests careen through the ride, grotesque, malformed human and animal creatures shout at the roadster to stop. The cart has supposedly gone out of control, driving through pubs and into a storage room filled with dynamite. In the end, guests have driven through places that they just should not have gone—they have broken logic and etiquette–driving backwards through much of the ride–literally traveling the wrong way.

In this ride, the orderliness and safety of the Disney exterior world of controlled lines and landscaped flora is hurled through the carnivalesque space, on wildly, forward moving carts. Within these spaces, humanized animals–symbols of the grotesque–the melding of the human and animal both in theory and in a more physical union, lunge at spectators and reenact scenes from the popular movies. Examples of this abound in the park, from Mr. Toad (a well-dressed frog,) to Mickey Mouse (the main icon of the Magic Kingdom). These humanized animals are a sterilized version of the sexualized imagery of the grotesque (a very important idea that upon re-reading this–I will have to go back to–but to reiterate, these characters are the historical, theoretical sexual and cultural descendants of the grotesqueries that our ancestors drew on those ancient grotto walls–the symbols of the overturning power of the carnivalesque.) It is not accidental that the birthplace of grotesque imagery, the cave, cavern or grotto is the prevalent space within attractions throughout the park.

That castles and Edwardian mansions become cavernous interiors is also evidence of the architectural (logical) exterior of Disneyland transforming into a feminized visceral, womb-like interior. The associations that architecture call to mind are those of solid foundation and the masculinist, hegemonic rules of the logic of society, whereas the forest and caves with images thrown against cavern walls call to mind the fantasy worlds of the illogical, the irrational and the interiority of both the body (and specifically the interiority of the female body.) Traditionally, the female body has been considered threatening because of its mystery and the association it has with sexuality and the void. That the caves in Disneyland take on what are traditionally defined as female aspects is clear, they often include softened, rounded interiors and mouth-like entryways. Some rides like Splash Mountain, contain lush, mysterious interiors. The Pirates of the Caribbean interiors are filled with “ill-gotten” loot and until recently, scenes of wild, sex-filled parties.[1]

However, these supposedly feminized interiors, closely associated with nature, are rarely presented as positive and seldom de-“mystified.” In Snow White’s Scary Adventures, guests journey in mining cars labeled with the names of the “seven dwarves” into a space that is meant to represent the Wicked Queen’s castle. This expanse, which breaks down into several narrative areas, is “wicked” only because it is controlled by the spirit of the queen. Only when the “Good Prince” rescues Snow White and takes control of the realm does the traditional fantasy of a happy ending occur. Interestingly, in this ride the “happy ending” occurs in text (…and they lived happily ever after,) painted on a flat, solid wall as we exit the ride–which is the opposite of the soft interiority of the rest of the ride.

“The within”, the cavernous “maw” is the fundamental interior space in Disneyland attractions. Here, as Plato does in his allegory of the cave, Disney can throw up images of the unnatural and in some cases further images of a traditional, moral warning. Disney does this in many forms from holograms in the Haunted Mansion and Snow White, shadows and silhouettes on Splash Mountain and Pinocchio to the moving animatronic creatures, who repeat small movements over and over, creating an infinite, manic loop of onanistic activity.

In the Storybookland ride, visitors are actually swallowed by Monstro, the gigantic whale from Pinocchio, whose internal space is a cave–his tail having been blasted away by a resourceful Pinocchio. In Mr. Toad, guests are again swallowed as a train that was heading straight at their car gives way to a cavern entrance, which is shaped like a large, gaping, demonic mouth. From here, they enter into Disneyland’s only representation of hell.

Within the ride, a classic British magistrate sentences riders as “guilty! Thank you, that is all!” In hell, the same judge, now, transformed into a demon, laughs maniacally pointing toward judgment. Visions appear against the back of the cavern walls—flames and floating demons and figures burning in a tormenting inferno. However, as in Plato’s allegory, the visions on the wall are not real, only illusory. Disney’s call for moral warning and rationality fails, precisely because of the way in which it is conveyed. Because this is allegory, because images and symbols move freely and cinematically, they cannot be controlled by Disney. Like all language the signs that make up Disneyland become infinitely iterable signs–like the future and ultimately like nature, they are beyond Disney control.

Within Fantasyland attractions, little attention is given to the original, “authorized” narratives of the books and movies. Especially in rides like Alice or Pinocchio the narratives break down and are overturned, becoming new ride narratives. Because of this, often there is little chance for the rider to make sense of these rides in a traditional sense. At times, characters appear and disappear for no good reason, and events occur out of order. In Alice, for example, the White Rabbit appears at times when he is meant to be missing. The Queen of Hearts screams at riders unprovoked and the Mad Hatter’s Tea Party occurs at the end of the tale.

Pinocchio is one ride that especially contests the traditional narratives found in the Pinocchio book, film and the moralities of the park in favor of an amoral ambivalence. The savage interior of Pinocchio’s Daring Adventure is one of the many places in which Disneyland logic breaks down, and a cautionary tale transforms into a celebration of the vulgar and low. This “daring adventure” is a breakneck of Carnivalesque imagery, ultimately turning Disney’s own messages against him.

Several biographers have noted that Disney was very much in favor of the wild, adventurous, seeking, experimenting (male) child.[2] Film characters like Peter Pan, the Lost Boys, Pecos Bill, and even Mickey Mouse and Pinocchio, are to some extent–examples of this. But, if Disney in the movies questions the world of adulthood and its breaking of the child’s will through rules and procedure, in Disneyland he gives almost completely into the propriety of civilized mannered society. Pinocchio’s Daring Journey was originally meant (like Mr. Toad) to be an admonishment to children against the dangers of breaking the rules of society. This however is not what occurs.

Throughout the ride, walls are painted with scenes of Pinocchio’s temptation. Disney is meticulous in showing the threat and punishment of desire. From the start, however, Disney’s intentions are thwarted. Riders begin at the gates to the puppet theatre, already mise-en-scene. Pinocchio is shown dancing on strings, already entrapped because he has succumbed to the temptations of sublimated sexual desire[3] and the greed of fame. He has chosen an “actor’s life” (literally, he has chosen to be an actor,) to take active control of his life and environment, and is no longer the passive puppet that F.C. Sayers accuses Disney guests of becoming.[4]

Like the civilized admonishment and implied threats throughout the park, this daring journey was also meant to be about the control of base emotions and the unregulated id (the child in us all.) In the adventure though, Pinocchio’s conscience, (Jiminy Cricket) is always shown attempting to catch up and only ever reaches the puppet at the end of the ride–when he has safely returned home. In this telling, Pinocchio never has to deal directly with his conscience.

Interestingly, this ride contains a Disney representation of a carnival. However, unlike the Bakhtinian carnival, riders are not meant to enjoy the ironically named “Pleasure Island.” Very quickly, any implied pleasure turns into menace. This is a manic, malicious carnival that hurls riders through at a breakneck pace while a loud calliope organ plays atonally, in the background. As guests pass through a debaucherous orgy of smoking, gambling and sex, they are unnerved by the distant braying of donkeys–the threat of Pinocchio’s eventual transformation into beast. This is the ultimate fear of coupling with our own animal natures. To add to the threat, against the last wall before Pinocchio’s transformation can be seen a jumbled sexualized creature–a mixture of moving human and animal figures.

Once Pinocchio has finally and utterly succumbed to all sorts of debauchery and has become a jackass, he is almost immediately swallowed by Monstro the whale. The next scene immediately shows the “good fairy” returning Pinocchio home safely. Where Geppetto greets him with the words, “I’m so happy.” But something is amiss and the traditional story has been radically changed. Pinocchio has not renounced the ways of debauchery and sin. Within the ride, we do not see a moment in which the puppet has a change of heart. Any misgivings have to be extrapolated from sources outside the ride—outside of this text. Instead, here Pinocchio has to be saved only when events would surely have destroyed him. This Pinocchio has unremorsefully enjoyed all that the carnival has to offer, and (just barely) survived. To further show the lack of his awareness, in the final scene of the ride–Pinocchio has not become a boy. He has chosen to stay in his imperfect, unreal state. The traditional “Happy Ending” has been thwarted. Here, the attraction itself has “overturned” the Disney narrative in favor of a new ambivalent one. Despite all of their scriptwriting, Imagineers have been incapable of controlling their own text! Oodalolly!

In the final analysis, despite Disney and his Imagineers, there is another set of laws in this land. At every turn, when Uncle Walt has attempted to control his utopia, he has instead created areas of resistance. Like entropy eating away, the park continues to succumb to the chaotic desires of nature and time, despite nearly absolute control within the Magic Kingdom, spaces of Disney break-down continue to be introduced and discovered. This happens in any system in which an overweening, hegemonic, masculinist power attempts absolute control over any text, be it religion, politics or Disneyland.

This is what Paul McCarthy and I talked about that night after he talked to everybody else in a way that they seemingly wanted to hear. This is why I had gone to see the artist, so he could break the bounds of the static hegemonic safety of the traditional canon and talk about something that mattered–even if I had to speak to him one on one in order to do so. And yes, I did get his autograph. I also have Wayne Thiebaud and Jacques Derrida’s–but those are other stories for other times. The Derrida story is particularly fun as we followed the philosopher into the bathroom…

Note: This is a seattlepi.com reader blog. It is not written or edited by the P-I. The authors are solely responsible for content. E-mail us at newmedia@seattlepi.com if you consider a post inappropriate.